I didn't know this benefit came with the package (Catching your students' illnesses).

Day 45

Wednesday


It’s been awhile since I mentioned the hills of Alora. My calves tell me it’s time to revisit that theme. I’m sure that some with weaker constitutions think Lombardi St. in San Francisco is steep. That’s cute. After they’re done ‘climbing’ that flat, I encourage them to come to Alora for some hills. The streets are so steep that bending down to crawl up the roads wouldn’t draw any attention; I’m surprised I haven’t seen anyone doing it yet, you’re bent over so far already, might as well throw your hands into the equation. I’m glad I don’t live there not just because it’s a pain in the butt to make a vertical hike to go visit a neighbor and repel down the street to go home afterwards, but because my calves would be jacked if I made that walk everyday. Growing up I was lucky to have such great friends and such outspoken strangers on hand to remind me of “Whoa! Look how big your calves are!” Yes, thank you, I’m quite well aware. They ARE my legs. I tend to see them every time I put my pants on. And yes, yes, I run. Yes, I bike. If it weren’t for such honest and spontaneous reminders I might just forget, which would really do wonders for my self-esteem. Because no you idiot, I don’t do calf raises everyday to ‘tone them.’ go away. Well after walking down hill my legs are on fire, bracing for each step, preventing a huge slide downwards on my ass.

Despite my best efforts I did have a huge downfall. Not on the hills of Alora unfortunately. The flu came around back and drop kicked me. I was out like a light the minute I finished teaching class.

And there is no worse feeling than sitting on a bench a long way from home knowing you don’t have anyone to call to take you home and help get you to bed. It was a sad shuffle in the rain back to my igloo. Luckily exhaustion tends to make involuntary decisions for you before you can argue. Passing out on my bed was what my body wanted to do, so I had my earliest bed time since my first day in Spain (when I fell asleep at 8pm because of jet leg).

So much for my Spartan immune system. And my kilo of oranges. Where’d all that vitamin C go to??

And back to noticing odd peculiarities. A woman passed me today walking her dog. She was walking her dog. As in the dog was not walking. It sat in a child’s carriage. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure that defeats the whole purpose of walking the dog.

Glad my germs are far away, quarantined in my room, hoping you all are happy and HEALTHY!


Good news...the turkey I made with my kids is done! (The plume of tail feathers is made of their hands, that they traced, colored, and wrote what they are thankful for).

No drugs allowed on school property...but Jesus?

Day 44

Tuesday

Some mornings I’m sure I wake up in a different body than I went to sleep in. This morning I wondered who switched me for a sickly body. That sleepy head fog didn’t clear as I took the train to work because it was a sinus headache, settling in like the San Francisco fog, there for sometime. And that itchy throat started raising some racket of its own, clawing coughs every now and then. And my nose seemed to have forgotten itself, and more importantly its crucial purpose; it rather fancied being a leaky faucet today. And just to make sure I didn’t smile away my sick status with the sunny weather, rain clouds barged in to make me blue. Who really wants to feel better when the weather just makes you want to go to bed?

Being sick puts you into a silly mood. You notice odd little peculiarities and you miss the big obvious road signs (like the green light to cross the street until you’re pushed from behind to go). I walk into my school and right by a huge nativity scene without taking note. I literally have to detour to get around it. Vooomp. Doesn't register. But when I come down to the teacher’s lounge during a rainy indoor recess day I stop and stare. Another teacher approaches my bewildered face and asks if I had ever seen a Nativity Scene before. I say, well, obviously, I’m from America; it’s called the Bible Belt. I tell her I’m just wondering why it’s in the school. (Because after all, Zapatero (prez of Spain) told the Pope when he came to give the inauguatory mass at La Sagrada Familia (the most beautiful basilica ever in Barcelona) he quite bluntly told the Pope that he was welcome to visit, but would do well to remember that Spain is a NON-DEMONINATIONAL country, no longer officially catholic, and all the while hundreds of gay couples participated in a protest outside of the Sagrada Familia, with an encore of all the couples kissing.) So this is why I wondered about the Nativity Scene. So soon, in a public school, that’s not allowed to be Christian? Her response, “Well, it’s Christmas.” (Ergo it’s okay.) hmmmmmm…..

Sidestepping Christmas in class we’ve been talking about Thanksgiving. Attempting to teach the kids a bit more thoroughly than Pocahontas might. It’s hilarious; more classes are disgusted by the idea of stuffing and green beans. Oh cultural differences.

It’s a misty day as I walk home…walk to bed. Some days just need to be over with the minute they begin.

Love you all dearly. Off to dream about when I see you again.

The Rose Garden

Malaga at Dusk....soak it up

Alora, what a view...

What is the only thing with a more powerful kick than Chuck Norris? A Dunkin Coffee Double Shot Espresso

Make that a double shot actually.

Day 43

Monday

It’s nice knowing that even the people who can’t afford to have an “it’s a Monday morning” Monday morning have them. It’s 7:14am. I’m sitting on a chair on the train and we have not departed. Something is wrong. I wish it were the fact that I’m on a train at that hour, but alas no, that’s what’s right. The official schedule mandates that we depart Malaga Centro at 7:10am. Here we are, zooming off to nowhere at 7:14am. And then a small man in a black coat I could have sworn I saw smoking a cigarette above ground by the tunnel entrance dashes by me into the driver’s car and we hear a rushed, “Tren con destino Álora” (Train going to Álora) resound through the speakers. And off we go. Delightful. The poor train, tethered to Spanish time, even if it is ready to go, just like me.

Once I’m in Álora I have a delightful time noticing small town quirks as I walk to my school. For anyone that has a small child that walks to school or has seen an elementary school 10 minutes before the school day begins knows very well the role of the Crossing Guard. In America the Crossing Guard has a bit of an inflated idea about their position (granted they are keeping our children safe, of great importance yes, but come on, the blinky lights are already making the drivers go 25 mph. you could be blind, hit a child and still stop before you even began to roll over his baby toe.). The American Crossing Guard dashes out into traffic, usually adorned with a vest of blinding vibrancy, so as to shock drivers into stopping. The more elite have a whistle which they use to signal the children to commence crossing the street. And the culmination of their post is their body movement; they have mastered the erect scarecrow stance. Both arms outstretched, as if they were holding up walls on either side, feet outspread like a power ranger ready to defend an attack, with their head pivoting left right left right left right, eyeing any indication of an inching car. And finally the encore, the wave to the cars. Once the children have safely reached the other side, the Crossing Guard exits the crosswalk with a vigorous hand wave to the presumably ignorant cars to commence driving if it wasn’t obvious that it is clear. The Spanish crossing guards could learn a thing or two from the American Crossing Guards. I’ll tell you why. As I waited in a group of Spanish students to cross the street to go to school I marveled at the guards LACK of performance. A half hearted glance to the right, and he steps out into the street. Steps out. As in 1 step. He puts his right hand out, like he were swatting at hip height grass and nods his head ever so slightly for the kids to walk, which was needless because half of them are so reckless to assume cars just stop at the drop of a dime for them, so they just go, and before even half the group is across the Guard is back to his side, leaning against his car. And he probably gets paid a pretty penny for that lackadaisical effort. As I trudged on I wanted to say, “Look, it’s too bad that you find your work so emasculating. But it’s your job. My kids may make me insane, but I’d rather be yelling at them in class than crying over them at their funeral. Do your damn job. And get a brighter vest. Navy blue draws no attention. And no I don’t care if you don’t think florescent yellow isn’t a becoming color on you.”

The rest of the day proceeded with more Turkey Day talks, more disgusted faces when I tell them about green beans. And even more disbelief when I tell them we eat dinner at 6pm. I have 8 year olds telling me they eat dinner at 8, 9 or 10 pm. And they say I’m crazy for a 6pm dinner. Why eat at 10 pm and go to bed at 10:30pm?? I have this crazy idea that food is FUEL for the body, and that the body needs fuel to survive. Don’t feed me right before I go to bed, I can pass out just fine on my own. But hell yes, feed me before I go for a run or try and do my homework. Again, point Katie for living on her own.

It’s 3:30pm and I’m off the train and off to the bus station to catch a ride out to teach English in another town at 5pm. But I’m dragging. And I mean dragging. It’s like the 10 am and 4 pm slump are hitting me at once. So I reach into my back pocket and pull out the precious 1.10 Euros that I save for emergencies. And I step up to Dunkin’ Coffee (NO, not Dunkin’ Donuts, even though they have those, this is Dunkin’ Coffee) and ask for an espresso. Double shot. Understanding the bags under my eyes and big backpack lugging me down the coffee lady hands me 2 sugar packets instead of one as I go. And I’m off. Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And I keep going through English class through salsa class through checking emails and right on through till 1am when I can’t fall asleep even though my body is whipped. Damn you double shot, you did well, you did too well.

I spy with my little eye, something....

Day 42

Shoes, chandeliers, cds, tapes, books, shower heads, money, tea pots, cups, vases, telephones, cell phones, jewelry, nails, screws, hammers, bolts, nuts, crow bar, paintings, pictures, blankets, curtains, high heels, moon shoes, dresses, t-shirts, hats, sunglasses, batteries. All scattered on blankets like a photo shoot for the “I SPY” book. I’m back, I couldn’t resist. It’s Sunday afternoon at the market by the futbol stadium. Despite my roommate’s adamant assertion that it is a dirty market I rather love it. I don’t presume myself to be dirty nor dirty in taste, but I love the abrupt pace and the outspoken nature. I also am drawn by the desperate nature of the market. Everyone’s livelihood is on the line. They must sell their goods. If not…..well…..

It’s my chance to see those people living in Spain who actually vie for my attention, who don’t have a stick up their ass because I don’t speak their language perfectly or I’m not the most beautiful thing to grace this Earth. At the market there is only one language, money. And the vendors aren’t really speaking to me, they’re hollering at my pocket, inviting my wallet to come out and open up. But I don’t mind, I don’t bring any money for that reason. I’ve got a weak spot for impulse buys. And an ever sorer spot for buyer’s regret. :)

It’s not just the vendors’ interaction with me that I get a rise out of but witnessing the interaction between the vendors. Like old neighbors talking over the fence, they yell, ‘give me 5 euro to make change” or “buy me a water” or ‘watch my daughter, I’ll be back soon!” or “how much you sell today?” market talk is loud and quick. It’s curt and to the point. Attention spans run short; words must fly across the stream of people before the recipient’s attention is lost. I’m sure the yelling is endearing, even if it does sound harsh and corrosive to my sensitive American ears. I don’t think I’d like to have a stand and spend all my day selling odds and ends, but I do think I would really like to be part of that world for a short while. I wonder, where did they find these things? Professional dumpster diving? A sweet deal from a supplier? Stock piling Christmas gifts through the years? How….???

By about 2pm the market begins to wind down and people start to pack their unsold goods into bags and boxes, shoving them into the trunks and aisles of mini-vans to be carried home and hopefully sold another day at another market. So I wander away, laughing at the couple selling potions of tea infusions to cure ‘pain of the bones’, ‘obesity,’ ‘broken heart’, and ‘stomach aches.’ I’m pretty sure it’s all chamomile tea, to make the buyer just calm down and breathe. Then all their troubles dissipate.

I head for a loop on the beach while the sun is still high overhead; trying to soak up all the warmth I can before heading back to my igloo apartment. The frigid winds that roam the high altitudes at the tops of buildings seems to infiltrate every crack in my doors and windows, seeking me out, wondering why I’ve left my wandering for another day. But today I’m at the beach. Enjoying the sunshine and the silence. Sundays in Spain are magical. While Spain claims to be predominantly catholic, it really has booted the institution for the most part keeping only 2 crucial parts of the faith. They keep the holidays holy (i.e. A week long Easter celebration called Semana Santa) and they regard Sunday as a day of rest. And by rest I mean cessation of all activity. I mean, Sunday is the day of great and widespread sluggardness. While it drives me mad some days that EVERY STORE iN SPAIN IS CLOSED, every store, seriously EVERY STORE, I love the tranquility that is put out to air instead of noisy people. I can actually hear the rolling waves hitting the beach; I’m not bothered by the rush of cars. I can hear the squawk of the parrots in the palm trees; loud music from the bars doesn’t drown them out. And I can hear myself think, I’m not distracted by noisy tourists on the beach. It’s wonderful.

This evening I found myself with time to watch the sunset from atop the Alcazaba (the Muslim fortress behind our apartment). And as I watched the sun lean back over the mountains I thought, I’ve always wanted the time of day to just watch the sunset. And now I have it. What a blessing. And so I lingered a bit longer, as if I expected an encore. But really I was just trying to ingrain the moment in my memory so if I ever thought to complain about my free time, I could remember the gift in it. It was a glorious sunset. The perfect dénouement to an emotionally vexing couple of days. Deep breathing seems to come more natural in the dark. And so walking down the path from the top of the Alcazaba deep breaths carried me step by step all the way back to my apartment where I tried to make peace with the clock, the world, the people, and my purpose. And beg the cold draft to leave me be.

What a change...

Day 41

Father and son. Father and son. Father and daughter. Mother and daughter. Mother and son. I’m walking on the beach on Saturday morning and I’m passed by parents and children again and again as they ride their bikes in the morning sunshine. Passing by the playground a dad is pushing his daughter gently as she screams getting higher and higher. A mom is helping her son unwrap a candy bar and a grandma sits on the bench watching just like me. What I notice is not how many pairs I pass, but what the children have done to transform their parents. They’re no longer the woman who cut me in line at the market, they’re no longer the policeman telling me they’re closed for siesta and can’t help me get a residence card, and they’re no longer the motorbike riders that honk at me for taking too long to cross the street. They’re tender, caring, loving and dare I say patient. For as much as I gripe about the people of Spain, I’m enamored by the family vignettes I pass by on my walks. A man opens a door and I edge by to see him reach in to unbuckle his sleeping daughter from her car seat, cooing softly to her as he holds her against his chest. The parents are love itself. And I wonder if this person was there all along. They have remarkable tenderness, such sweet and encouraging remarks, and the attentiveness of unconditional compassion. I can’t begrudge them for favoring their own because my heart is already melting at seeing their interactions. If they can’t direct such love towards me I’m glad the children are receiving it all. Lord knows they save NONE of it for foreigners.

But some parents aren’t so wonderful. They partake in quite a popular form of child cruelty. I call it the matching outfit. And they do it across genders occasionally. And they seem to have a silent competition for dressing their children in the ugliest dress possible. Each family tries to beat the next. Look, all my children are in blue and white paisley, with bows bigger than their heads. Yes, even my son. But look , they match! It’s terrible. I don’t understand this trend at all. Little military lines of children holding hands, connecting the same dress across three little bodies, follow their parents through the park, parading their match-i-ness. And I can only furl my brow and purse my lips in disgust.

Not being a parent myself, I wonder if the secret of loving a child so tenderly comes with the instruction manual when they’re born. I venture to say that unconditional love is something found universally and that comforts me. But what is it about seeing your own child running towards you that gives parents that special smile the rest of the world can only wonder about.

I hope someone is gazing upon YOU lovingly.

You'd look hotter in a helmet.

Day 40

I’ve come up with a new theory. And I think I’m right. The trash men are in conspiracy with the homeless. Now my proof.

7:30 Am. I’m making my mad dash to the train. Looking down into the dried out river bed that has been washed clean in cement it lounges dirty, smell, and trash ridden. As I continue to the entrance that has been constructed to let trash trucks down into the river I see the troublesome pair of trucks again. The trash men park the trucks under the bridge and then chat. I never actually see them collect any trash. I see them drive down, park and wait. They wear the uniform, which keeps anyone from peering suspiciously down at them. But they park under the bridge in the part of the river that is what I’ve come to call The Campground because the local homeless folk set up tents, card board boxes and such and sleep.

Later that day. The trucks are still there. The trash is still there. The homeless are still there. Okay, so either they’re homeless too or they’re babysitters. I wonder if the homeless people have struck a deal with them, they have the trucks watch their Campground while they go beg the streets. The evidence of their lack of work is scattered through the city, pouring out of trashcans and stinking up the river. But somehow they are bothered by the stench or the bottles that fly up as cars run over them. They just keep camping out under the bridge.

Later that night. Before it gets dark, probably at 5pm, the trucks drive up out of the river. Trash left behind. And they go home. Driving past all the trash on the streets and all the trash in the dumpsters.

I wonder if they’re hiring. I’d even intern.

Not that it’s particularly hard to beat the Spanish system because it’s too lazy and inefficient to care, but they’ve certainly mastered the art of being paid to do NOTHING.

And I really need to rant for a second. IDIOT BIKERS IN MALAGA. What is up with this new fashion statement you all are taking part in? Why would you put your helmet on the front of your handle bars like a large hood ornament? Why not put it on your head so that when you’re hit by a car that is driven by a driver who is smoking and less concerned with the road than with how much of their cigarette is left, you don’t fly over your handle bars, and consequently your helmet and land on your head, the whole while looking at the damn helmet you could have put on your head and could have saved your life. That’s right, if you wore the helmet I couldn’t see just how gorgeous you are. Is the phrase ‘hat-hair’ even in the Spanish vocabulary?? I think not. And another note. IDIOT BIKERS WHO DON’T WEAR HELMETS- I know you don’t want to ride in the street with the insane taxis, but you cannot just ride all over the sidewalk where we walkers are walking. It’s a sideWALK..WALK.WALK. And if you do decide to hop on with us WALKErS, please at least try and grunt if you can’t actually say on your left instead of just clipping me and thinking I’ll learn my lesson for walking on the sidewalk that way. You’re right, I’ll learn. I think I’ll just start clothes-lining you helmet-less fools. See how you like an elbow to the Adams apple, eh???

Ooo Look at that one! And that one!

Day 39

I window shop for people. Being too poor to actually enjoy the torturous temptation of window shopping I peruse people on the street. After all, when I’ve nothing better to do, I walk. The only other ones who know what I’m up to are the old men on the benches. They see me staring from the corner of my eye and they stare right back. I secretly like our stare-downs. They don’t make any sort of smirk like the rest of Spain, but it’s more an act of mutual acknowledgement of each other’s turf. I don’t linger long in the rose garden, that’s for the 3 musketeers. I don’t sit in the park by the fountain, that’s the old white hair guys spot. I certainly don’t plop down on the bench at the beginning of the main drag. That’s for the old buds in loafers. Most of the Spanish are too busy to notice us people watchers, tourists are hopefully oblivious, and the homeless are wary of us, not wanting us to distract their potential audience. But when I spot a gem I let my gaze lock on and lock in. I notice what they’re wearing, the way they walk, wonder where they’re coming from, why they thought a rat tail was sexy, how cold they must be in just a mini skirt, how bad their feet must hurt in the 6 inch heels and how much fun they’re about to have with the group of friends around them.

Heading back home from the park I wait for the little green walk man to let me know its ‘safe’ to cross. After hearing that 75% of deaths at cross walks occur when the pedestrian is in the right, I’m quite a bit more wary about those fickle cars. Lucky I do because on my right a mini car screeches to a stop and a boy easily only 15 years old with braces bounces with excitement in his seat while his mom is paralyzed with the universal face of fear and the ubiquitous white knuckles bracing the dashboard. She says something quick to him and I hear the emergency break snap on. It’s hilarious to think that the Spanish teach their children to drive cars. I can promise that I’ll never jaywalk. Ever. But it was comically comforting to see the terror on the mother’s face. It reminded me so much of home :)

peace & love. woosie, who's really not loving the whole winter at the beach idea. it's cold!

LMNOP.

Day 38

Children get the most joy out of the simplest things. I’m sure any mom would tell you that pots and pans make the best toys. And any dad would argue that a pile of rocks and a pond can be drawn out into hours of fun. So despite my best lesson plans it’s the Alphabet song that has got my students all riled up. I’ve got them lined up in the back of the classroom firing the alphabet to me while I bounce around between the letters written on the board, mouthing the troublesome sounds for the tongue tied. They’ve got big nervous eyes waiting for their turn; I can see them trying to figure out which letter they’ll have to say, just so they’re ready when I point at them. After we’ve run through it a couple of times and I’m almost ready to say that they’ve pretty much got it I have them turn around and face the back of the room, to test them without the help of the board. They look at me like American Idol contestants asked to sing their selected audition piece in pig latin. I assure them that this is JUST a game and I don’t plan on failing them for forgetting the letter ‘j.’ I basically whisper the alphabet down the line, but it came together in the end. They even managed to tack on “Now I know my ABCs, next time won’t you sing with me!” A few even managed to muddle through it on their own. And they’re in 6th grade. It is always funny to me to see what falls through the cracks and never gets taught. I’d say you’re crazy if you asked me to speak another language without a clue as to what the letters sounded like. But that’s probably why they say words like “Run!” as “Rooooon!” or my name “Katie’ as “Kitty.” (Funny side note...all this fun happened ONLY after Katie got to write the English alphabet with Spanish phoentics below to indicate how to say each letter using the Spanish alphabet. Yes I did want to pound my head into the wall, surprisingly enough).

Catching the train home I run into one of the other English teachers who is at the high school nearby in Álora. We laugh about what we’re teaching and I am exceedingly glad to be in elementary education because he’s been asked to present on the democratic system of governance in comparison to a dictatorship and further discuss human rights, specifically in the USA. And I’m planning on having my students trace their hands and draw turkeys while we watch Pocahontas in honor of Thanksgiving. HA! (not really, that’s not at all PC). While it doesn’t feel quite right to say that I’m lucky to be where I am because it’s a forced phrase I’m wishing I might believe, I’m lucky to be at my school. At least the kids want to sing songs still.

Today is big because its my first day teaching another English class at another program. I’m on edge, but they’ve told me it’s a class of just two 5 year olds. So I’ve laughed off most of my nerves because we’ll be doing fun games and practicing silly baby English. When I arrive I’m introduced to Sergio and Natalia. Sergio is quick to let me know that his name in English is pronounced “Sergi” and I should probably call him that if I speak English. it’s amazing how fast an hour can fly when you’re playing “I spy” and coloring in pictures and taking frequent bathroom breaks. (They weren’t even drinking anything, why would they need to go to the bathroom 3 times??!!) hahaha….they’re adorable so I don’t mind. And they give me the sweetest smiles when they say a word right and they know they’ve done well.

I scurry back to Malaga for the only thing that gets me through the week- salsa. Sadly less people are there (clearly not as dedicated) which makes the whole ‘partner dancing’ thing a bit more difficult. The teacher has decided that I’ve got the basic footwork down (no shit) and has given me more ‘advanced homework.’ My hips. She keeps saying make a circle, like this and I want to tell her, look hon, what you’re doing looks real good and I’d like to do it just like that, I really would. But it ain’t gonna happen. That’s just not natural. I’m pretty sure if they wanted to move like that they would have started ohhhh 4 years ago when I began, but they sure are stubborn cause they won’t. she refuses to believe my denials and leaves me alone with my hips and the mirror and goes around to encourage the floundering beginners who’ve started to stand like statues staring at their feet wondering why they won’t stay connected to their brain and their short term memory of what the steps should be. It’s wonderful and I love it. Granted I don’t actually dance any salsa, which leaves me still slightly insane, but I’m inching closer.

A Pretty Bad Nightmare.

Day 37

So much stock is put into our worst nightmares and yet they rarely come true. We really should be worrying about our lesser nightmares, the horrors that don’t signify the end of the world, but come tortuously close to the edge of the feeling of Armageddon. These night mares can and often do occur. Because really, when are you going to give a speech to 6 billion people? Never, that’s Obama’s job. When are you going to fall into a pit of tarantulas? Never, just don’t do Survivor. When are you going to get lost in a circus full of clowns? Never, no one goes anymore, get scared on youtube. And really, when are you going to get eaten by a shark? Never, just don’t look like a seal while you surf. But when are you going to get your toe run over by a car? Probably often if you are the impatient pedestrian going before the green man says WALK. When are you going to try and dye your hair the epic platinum on the box and have it actually turn out orange? It’ll probably happen if you’re also making brownies and chatting at the same time and not reading the directions. And when are you going to be given a science book in Spanish and asked, in front of the class, to teach Earth Science, on the spot, cold. Probably, if you were me today, it happened.

I’d been waiting since my first day for Carmen to actually show up for Science with the rudest, loudest, most annoying, most disrespectful, most un-bi-lingual 4th grade class. Every Tuesday at 12 she had something else to do besides teach and so I’ve never actually been able to team-teach science with her. The grand idea was that I would teach the concepts in English as Carmen taught them in Spanish. Somehow the 4th graders missed the boat on bi-lingual education and don’t know anything. So I would merely provide beginner words. But Carmen never came, so I never met the class, got the book or figured out what the hell we might be doing. Until today. She decided to come. I thought, “Finally!! We get to teach science!” I usually really like Carmen, she’s independent, supremely assertive (in the way most Spanish women are), well-spoken (if not out-spoken at times) and always cruelly fashionable. She’s like the cool girl in high school I never dared to wish to be because that was an impossible dream, but always wanted to be near because she was fascinating, in being so popular and knowing it. So of course, I’m all smiles because I get to teach with one of the coolest teachers in school. She though, is less exuberant. She pulls me aside and says, “Would it bother you to have me sit over here and grade notebooks?” I say of course not, BUT…..I thought we were teaching science together, in Spanish and English. She says, ‘yes yes’ and hands me their science book and turns it to page 41, telling me they just learned parts of the flower and then walks away to the back of class to grade papers. And 26 pairs of eyes are staring up at me as she says to them “Now listen to Senorita Katie. She’s going to teach you now” and my eyes dart to the page in escape, roving the pictures, the titles, the labels, the diagrams, the readings, the questions, the subtitles – ALL IN SPANISH! No this was not the end of the world, but I was staring at the picture of a flower wondering a) what the heck is a sépalo? And b) how the hell do I say it in English? As hard as I was trying to think of productive things to say and do all my mind wanted to repeat was “This is terrible. This is terrible. OH MY GOD.” I had no idea. So I had them draw flowers. And the sun. and clouds. And dirt. And we labeled the parts in English, or at least the parts I thought were deserving of being labeled (Not sépalo for sure…simpler things like roots, leaves, petals. Yep, actually that’s it..) All the students were watching me scramble, floundering helplessly, trying to say words like “dioxido de carbono” for the first time in my life, sounding like a blender grinding ice cubes. And Carmen continued to grade. If I hadn’t been able to see her ears in plain view I could have sworn she had an ipod putting her light years away mentally. Another long quiet moment began to set in and I zipped through pages looking for anything to talk about that I could a) actually pronounce and not sound like a kindergartener with a mouth full of Peanut Butter and b) thought wouldn’t bore them to further death. So I saw a section on seeds with pictures of fruits and veggies. And then I remember the technique of master Bull Shit- talk about what you have to talk about without actually talking about it. So we were supposed to talk about photosynthesis but instead we named our favorite fruits. And then we named our favorite vegetables. And then we talked about different types of nuts. And during this third round of BS, the king of interruptions and reigning champion of uncouthness did not raise his hand but merely shouted to me “I have to copy them all??” And so I repeated to him what I had already said twice for the previous sections. No, you need only copy at least 10 of the 15. And he started to whine about his hand being tired. I began to erase the board for the next part and he screamed that he wasn’t done. He only had 3 written down. Now he’d never get 10. And he didn’t want to write 10 anyways, did he really have to?? That’s when I closed my book, approached him and with the coolest passion, so fiery it could have singed his faux-hawk down to the scalp and I let fly one of my best, professionally suave and disguised chastisements, smiling like a fox having cornered a fat hen, I said, ‘Israel, as I’ve said before, I would like everyone to copy at least 10 if they don’t have the stamina to copy all 15 words on the board. Why else would I be here to teach English, certainly not just to talk to myself, right? But if you wish to be the laziest boy in the class and learn nothing, that is your choice. I certainly won’t cry when you haven’t learned English because you don’t care to try. And for your disrespect I shall repeat nothing.” Silence. Finally, he was quiet and that little hand was flying across the page. I turned back to the board until the steam had dissipated from my face. Then I turned back around and said, “Ok, now let’s learn how to say all of these words you’ve hopefully written down.”

Hours later I had stopped sending daggers to Carmen with my stare. I guess, I’m grateful for her making me scrappy, giving me a chance to see how well I think on my feet. But if she dares try to teach anything next week….ooooooohhhhh….i’ll……

And honestly, who out there could actually tell me the parts of a flower??? Just smell them damn it.

Love love love.

Just another Manic Monday

Day 36

Like those last few m&ms in a bag of trail mix, my days at school take on a certain sacred quality. My body is on full alert to not oversleep, to not miss the train, to not forget any books and to not forget my lesson plans. I’m especially wired on Mondays. You’d think I was the only teacher in the school with how anxious I get about not missing class, instead of being the measly teacher-in-training. But like the kid with 1 line in the school play that puts all he has into those precious few words, I make sure my part matters.

I usually start having ‘false alarm’ wake ups at 5am, totally certain that its 10am and I’m late. Today though I was up and alert, the latter which rarely occurs in tandem with the former in the early AM by 6am and could not for the life of me fall back asleep. I went back into fetal position, telling my body to sleep, please sleep. But the racket of doors banging in the building roused me, making me imagine people breaking into our building, when it was really just the rowdy early morning wind. So being up, I thought, hell, why not take the 7:10am train to work instead of killing time till the 8:10am train. I was a space traveler hurtling through the darkness at high speeds. Specks of light from houses just awakening blinked on like stars twinkling in the distance. There was an element of eerie exhilaration rolling through the countryside in the pitch black. It reminded me of how I love (eh...well, that word is a bit strong) to fly into a city in the wee hours of the morning and see the grid of life illuminated from above.

I’m sure if I were at an American school my early arrival would still have gotten me in later than the veterans. But I’m in Spain, so being 30 minutes early I’m the ONLY one in the school. The office is closed. Not a single teacher is in their class. Not a single child is roaming the halls. Perhaps a janitor was cleaning, but I seriously doubt it. I began to seriously worry that there wasn’t school, that perhaps there was a vacation they hadn’t bothered to tell me about. Or maybe it was one of those “Puente” days (where if they have a holiday on Thursday or Tuesday, they don’t go to school or work on the day in between, so Friday and Monday also become holidays). But after enduring 15 very anxious minutes, I began to hear voices in the halls and the sound of loud chatter bounced around and into the teacher’s lounge. Phew….class is on. I’m sure it would have been funny if there wasn’t school and I was the earliest I’d ever been. But sometimes you get really tired of laughing at yourself, trying to ‘laugh it off.’ You wonder when you can start laughing at someone else.

My 2nd graders apparently woke with the same frenetic energy, blasting me away with the usual morning introduction, “HELLO! HOW ARE YOU? I’M FINE, THANK YOU! AND YOU? I’M FINE THANKYOU!” (HIGH 5). Energy is great because trying to teach to a class of kids bored to death is tortuous, but sometimes energy is bad. Like today. I wonder if the only English they’ll actually remember is “Quiet Please! BE QUIET! SILENCE! SILENCE NOW! SIT DOWN! EVERYONE IN YOUR SEATS!!”

I get a reprieve after 2nd grade because I get to go to my favorite class, 3rd grade B with Gema. I’m pretty sure it’s a class of only the cutest kids in Álora. There must have been auditions because they all make my heart melt. One of the more endearing of the supremely endearing is Álvarro (who always sparks the memory of Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks for me, even though he is no where near as hellacious as the chipmunk cartoon), came up to me and before he said anything I knew exactly what he was going to say. He was walking in an odd way with his little tummy pushed forward, like a woman 9months pregnant and her back is killing her. He pointed to his shirt, which was in English and said, “Mira Mira! (look look!)!” Feigning total amazement I said “WOW!! What a cool shirt! It’s in ENGLISH!! Do you know what it says??” He grinned from ear to ear and said “No, my uncle gave it to me.” I laughed; a man would have given him this. I said it really slowly so he could repeat the words, “Some day I’ll be the boss of you!” when I translated it to Spanish for him he laughed and ran away to tell his friends. And all along I had wondered where the Spanish men learn their machismo….ha. A bit later in class after playing some games and hopefully learning something another one of the cuties came up to me. This little guy is especially wonderful because he stutters, so anything he says takes at least 5 minutes and he says it in about 20 segments before it comes out all together. He takes my hand into his tiny hand and looks to the ground, bending his head down, almost like he were asking me to pray with him and he whispers so softly, like a secret wish he wasn’t sure he wanted to be heard, “Gracias, Senora Katie. Te quiero.” [Thank you Ms. Katie. I love you.] Okay, fine, now I know how the government gets away with paying me only 700 Euros and providing absolutely no support. They count on these little kids breaking your heart and making you almost commit to doing anything, anything for them. And I think we’ll be playing those games again, damn they were effective. HA! God it felt good to be loved in the moment, unmitigated by email, Skype, cell phones or oceans.

I was a smiling fool the rest of the day. During recreo in the teacher’s lounge the principal handed our evaluation forms to the teachers to judge the books they used in their courses. The principal was especially interested in what they thought could improve the books. All the teachers begrudgingly take the sheets, and one of them, as soon as the principal steps out says to the rest of us lounging on the sofas, “I always say that they’re “inmejorable” (unable to be improved. The best.) Look, there are people who dedicate their lives to making these books. I spend 1 hour a day with them. So of course, if they spend all their time making them, they’re the best. What can I say to make them better.” Then another snappy teacher says, “Well, do they help you plan lessons? Or do they complicate your lesson plans?” and he waves off her question, his bocadillo like a shield, and says, “I plan like this. Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Turn the page, turn the page. Bam bam bam. Planning done. If any one has an idea to make the book better, I’ll listen, but I’m not being paid to make the book, so I say it is fine. Jostia! (Damn it!)” I was almost crying and rolling on the floor at this point. You must understand that this rebellious teacher is most certainly a hippie with a rat tail and wears AC/DC t-shirts to work. He would say that he doesn’t give a shit about the books.

I rode the high from recreo to class with the children 5 years old. It’d been a while since I’d taught because of schedule changes and so Estefania, my teacher-partner, asked the class if they remembered my name. One of the more rambunctious ones blurted out with the attitude of a 16 year old that just got their braces off, “She doesn’t remember our names and she doesn’t even speak Spanish.” I was bent over laughing, blushing a whole new hue of red. Oh little one, you think you’re so sassy, eh? I said, “Wow, ouch, okay okay. Well, I try and speak Spanish the best I can, SARAH.” (She had tragically forgotten that their names are taped to the back of their chairs). oooooooooo children. I made sure to ask her the hardest questions on the flash cards. Hahahahaa!! You can’t have it all I guess.

Hoping someone said something to you today that made your jaw drop :)

Peace & love.

November in my soul

Day 35

I’m beginning to think that in the Costa del Sol a day doesn’t really qualify as a day if there isn’t sunshine for 12 hours. When I woke up to puffy, sleepy grey clouds lounging in the sky I knew the city would call it quits and stay home. It’s eerie to wander the streets on days like this. It feels like a ghost town…a city abandoned after the war, but preserved by some magical nostalgia in its glory days. Waiters chat across the tight streets, guarding empty tables under large awnings, joking between the drops of rain, each wondering when they’ll close so they can go home. Strolling toward La Malagueta (the local beach) I begin to think back to UVA and all those silly rain boots that were pulled out of closets on days like this. None of those here, people just don't go out. At the beach the horizon stops short, like a troublesome boy in time out, his big grey back facing La Malagueta blocking the sun with his sour mood. It’s me and the occasional dog walker out. Otherwise is miraculously quiet. The mix of the sound of falling rain with the whoosh of the waves is soothing. I’d like to sit on a bench and just listen to the subtle concert of water in motion, but it’s too cold for that.

As the day drags on slower than the clouds move overhead I am certain that Melville best understood these times when he penned the line, “it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul.”

Love you and miss you more with each drop of rain.

And you are?......Yourself, you say?......why would you be that?

Day 34

I can only scratch my head wondering how Transylvania became infamous for vampire lore when Spain’s youth are modern day vampires. Perhaps the reason they are unreasonably grouchy with me at all hours of the day is because they can’t wait till the sunsets and they can eat their dinner in the moonlight and inebriate themselves in public parks, relishing the permissive nature of darkness’s oblivion. I am a mere mortal, and they must smell my blood, fresh and pulsing. Swarming me in ankle boots with heels that raises them inches over my head, the women flock the streets when it is no longer night, but early morning. Like birds competing for the females’ attention, mohawked boys step out in fresh jackets and shoes that one wouldn’t dare call loafers because they’re much cooler. Making sure they are seen and heard, the youth begin their nightly parade. I slip between them, staring up into eyes hidden behind layers of glitter and mascara and into crowds of boys splitting a bag of sunflower seeds. Even though it’s public debauchery, with only the most selfish intentions at heart, there’s an intimacy in the streets that I can’t put my finger on. Groups of friends see each other across the plaza and they race to one another in small celebrity steps, eyes darting at those who might be watching while they prepare to celebrate their discovery. Everyone has walked the streets many times over and so they know where they stand, where the crowd will file through, when the taxi will butt its nose in and query rides, and when to head to the clubs. I love the fluidity of bodies moving in the streets. For a newbie who isn’t quite always sure which direction to move in, the way the locals navigate their city is enthralling. It must be exhilarating to know where you want to go and to have people to meet, to have friends to look out for and to hope for the real possibility of the name being shouted across the plaza being yours. But as the invisible foreigner, I love sliding through the networks, soaking in the drama of the world’s most dramatic people.

Frustratingly though, long late nights engender later mornings and shorter days. I felt like I was back in elementary school, sleeping in till noon to get a solid 7 hours of sleep so I might function at some human level for the next 12 hours I might be awake for. It’s no wonder Spain needs a 3 hour lunch break during the week. They mess up their sleep schedule terribly on the weekends, there is no way their body is able to hold onto any sort of circadian rhythm. But it’s okay that I sleep the day away because I’ve already graduated. No big deadlines pulling me out of bed anymore. So in my wanderings around the city like a zombie from a long night I went to check to see if juggler man was being more productive than I and working the crosswalk. And he certainly was. Today was apparently supposed to garner laughs, he was dressed as a clown, with the hat, the creepy makeup, the big baggy pants and the outlandish shoes that covered more of the cross walk that should be allowed. And no, he really hadn’t improved at juggling. Still kept dropping them, posing more danger to the crossing pedestrians than the cars might if they were to run a red light. I waited long enough to watch a few rounds of red light shows and then he sauntered over to where I was by the magazine stand and I thought for sure he was going to charge me for peeking from afar. But as I stared at him through a twirling rack of Malaga postcards he started to chat with the stand owner asking for a bottle of water. It was the strangest thing to hear a voice attached to the clown, to hear him say how hot he was and how it was already a long day. I know he’s human, obviously, but it’s so strange to catch a performer performing them self. It reminded me of when I walk home from work and go down the main street just to get in some better quality people watching, the street performers who dress up and hold a pose, like a Viking or a person made of gold or a man in a newspaper world (Spain as usual makes odd choices that don’t seem at all relevant) frequently go on smoke breaks, stepping off their pedestal, grabbing their money cap, reach into their back pack, pull out a pack of cigs and then lean against the wall of the building taking long draws, acting as if they were nothing out of the ordinary, just any other man made of gold on his smoke break.

And it’s a silly full circle. The night time masquerade and the day time show. And I’m a window shopper, only passing by, not really buying into it. Only glad for my place in the shadows, moving around the spotlighted lives of the glamorous or those desperate to be glamour itself. Lord only knows what they’d have to say about me. Silly American tomboy. Go put on some makeup, put on your high heels and minifalda (mini skirt) and let’s go. Enough of the morning meditation. Enough of your reading. Enough of your writing. Stop thinking and BE. Maybe they’ve got a point….

Or bah-humbug. I miss you and love you for loving me, simply.

That's right, I speak American. You like that, don't ya?

Day 33

Desperation is a wonder drug. Its effects on the mind include the bending of rules of logic and rationality, misconstruence of reality, and often ill-thought out actions that really are more closely related to reactions than anything. In my case, I happened to be the benefactor of another’s desperation. I had gotten an interview with an English language program in Malaga to be a teacher at their school and for private clients. I get sick satisfaction from having something Spain wants and can’t have unless I give it- English. For as bad as it treats me, I get such pleasure from discussing my availability and preferred clientele, as if I were selecting those who would be given a place on Noah’s Arc. Who should I bestow my generosity on? But more importantly, who do I get to turn away? The interview was such fun, the man speaking English with an Australian accent (Spaniards reveal where they learned English in the first 5 seconds with their accent- British lingo or Australian lingo, with the occasional Irish brogue). What is even more delightful about those desperate to add a Native tongue to their ranks is their willingness to go with out a ‘contract’ they eagerly look the other way if you say you are a foreigner. Visa shmisa. You say you speak English; it’s your mother tongue. WE WANT YOU. But the desire for teachers comes to butt heads with the economy of Spain that refuses to recessutate itself. So sadly, while I’m wanted, no one can muster the monies to pay for my services. But it was a bold step to further employment. Even though most days I’d rather go grill hamburgers than review the parts of a sentence for 45 minutes straight.

I would like to speak now specifically to all college students. I would like to congratulate you for finding the worst tasting beer to enjoy weekly. Yes, Natty light is the world’s worst beer. I thought for a minute that Spain’s cheap brew, “Cruz campo’ might be worse, but after tasting it again this weekend I can assuredly confirm that American college students drink the worse tasting shit made. Cruz campo is reminiscent of drinking cardboard. But Natty Light is like drinking rusted aluminum. So, at least I can say that it could always be worse while I’m in Spain. Ha.

And lastly I’d like to close with a meditation on the Spanish style of running. I often wonder how they actually move anywhere with the way their bodies move. If you’ve never watched Friends and have never seen Phoebe run, do yourself the favor and Google it. It’s worth the stitch you’ll have in your side from laughing so hard. Well, Spain has taken its own approach to the phoebe-esque run. American has claimed the jog as its own, so Spain seems to have taken the cue and is trying to find a new way of moving that is faster than walking and is arguably called ‘running’. When I see the men in their spandex doing what some call running I wonder, have you just dismounted from your horse ride that must have lasted 20 years, or do you have a terrible rash of the inner thigh or do you have to pee terribly bad, that’s way you run knock kneed or are your shoes made of concrete, can you pick them up, or are you trying on purpose to damage your knees, the leg should not go out at an angle like that. But really I think, Spain, you are not so cool that you can re-invent the run. Fashion forward you may be, but for as close as you live to Africa, the homeland of endurance runners, you have the grace of a newly born 3 legged foal.

And they stare at me when I go for a run.

Oh Spain :)

I love you all and miss you dearly. Another day spent evading free time and the lonely feeling that plagues those quiet moments.

But I now have a Spanish debit card. Sometimes fate smiles upon me, and ooooo it feels so good.

Peace & love, woosita

Houston, Houston, Can you hear me?

Day 32

I feel like the man on the moon performing a masquerade of life in zero gravity. Moving with the speed of a thought lost in hesitation, my days take on a calculated deliberateness, searching for the enamor of a barren life while imagining what splendid things must be going on beneath the clouds covering Earth. There is nothing to push against and there is nothing to push me back, it’s a vacuum. And I float….all the while flailing hoping to hit something in the darkness that might send me back to Earth or might powder me with stardust, making not all dreams come true, but just a small plea for purpose. I remember when I used to sit at home and imagine the wonders of the far off, but now that I’m here, the gleam of the stars is still a lifetime away and what I took to be great opportunity for change and growth is really just a dream over dreamt, overworked and out of season. And so like a solo astronaut on a mission around the moon I keep checking in with Houston, playing on repeat their words of encouragement and plastering my windows with their cards to block out the galaxy so I might forget how far away I really am and how long it is till I come back around.

But it doesn’t seem fair that my only report of my space travel is to say it wasn’t Earth. Speaking in only negatives brings me no closer to the positives. Maybe if I could find away to get out of this foreign suit and find a more fluid way of moving in this new atmosphere I could enjoy the zeal of passing comets, dance through asteroid fields, and venture into black holes. There’s no Abort Mission button, I made sure to leave that at home, but there is a big Make It Work button that is worn smooth with use. Maybe someone somewhere will pick up my frequency and fly my way. Until then, I’m mapping the universe, wondering where the Man in the Moon has gone to…his smile was deceivingly inviting. I’d like to know his secret for living out here. The stars are too engrossed in their own twinkling to take note of my approach and time stretches on for light years; testing my patience for the long duration that acclimation takes.

But one bad day is buffered by one fun night. Sometimes the rush of a shooting star comes close enough that you can catch its drift and cruise along in euphoria for a bit. Salsa class offered me an hour of blissful respite from Spain. It was a class of just Erasmus students so we awkwardly greeted each other in mangled Spanish, each having a preference for some other tongue. Luckily for me English is the universal language and so when we were failing in Spanish I tried English and they all smiled, relieved to hear a much more familiar sound. The teacher as well helped inundate the class with playful and yet relaxing vibes. She is from Argentina, which means she doesn’t bother with the ludicrous Andalucian (or even Castellano) accent, which more importantly means I COULD UNDERSTAND HER. Hallelujah. At first when I was getting everything she was telling the class I became very curious as to why I was keeping up. Had dancing given me new ears? Was it the power of salsa I was channeling? No, no, she just actually pronounced all of the letters in words and didn’t speak with a lisp like she’d just gotten her tongue pierced. But while the language was like a massage for my ear canal, the dancing was a bit more painful. It was a beginner class. Everyone was doing what I endearingly call the Beginner Bop. They bounce forward and back, not quite having smoothed the steps out to make it look like they were gliding. So we did more of the jitterbug than salsa, but still we danced.

And then at the end of class a most remarkable thing happened. Perhaps smelling the familiar scent of extranjera loneliness that I can’t seem to wash off, the Germans who were at the class asked me if I wanted to go grab a drink with them. My mouth began to move in motions of yes, but I couldn’t process the request, it had been too long since someone had asked me to do something socially, as a friend. I eventually stuttered a few too many, ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, definitely.’ Trying my hardest to tone down any eager beaverness I might be radiating. Trying to seem cool, chill, NBD. While inside I was grinning like a 20 year old kid who’d just been given a drink without being carded. It must be said, Germans speak wonderful English. Perfect English. I wanted to hate them for being basically tri-lingual, but I was too busy loving them for loving me. And as I write this sentence I can barely believe it happened….We hung out. And I had fun. Yes, this all happened in Malaga, Espana. Yes. Yes. Yes. I can’t believe it either. And god, what’s more, they were friendly! Not that I imagine all Germans as Nazi sympathizers, but I was just surprised by their smiles and laughter, I don’t get those two often, in good humor that is. They were hilarious too, ordering extra large beers and drinking them faster than I had a chance to say ‘una copa, porfa” (a small beer please). Like true Germans, I surmise, they asked if I was going to finish my beer before we left. I only had maybe 2 sips left, but my tongue balked at the idea of emptying my cup. Maybe I’m scarred from drinking Natty Light at college, but beer does not hold a special place in my heart. A bottle of vino tinto is another story though…I waved it off saying that I had to teach early tomorrow morning, no need to finish it (lie). They looked incredulous, but still said good bye and hoped to see me next week at salsa. You couldn’t have paid me 10000000000000000000000 euro to stop smiling as I walked home. It is amazing what the kindness of a friendship can do to heal a hurting heart. I know that they aren’t Spanish and so I can’t practice the language with them, but regardless, they were friendly and they made me laugh, which is more than I can say for about all of Spain. Even if they do like to drink beer for fun, I hope to see them again.

I love you all and as you are obviously aware of (and if you aren’t aware, you’re a clod) I miss you!

And mama and faja, thank you :) how on earth did you find a bar of chocolate 90% dark chocolate? Parents have special powers, I’m sure of it. Thank you for using them for good!

Love's Form

Day 31

Given that I don’t subscribe to any religion, I suppose that means I don’t have the right to raise a complaint with any of them. The commentary cards are for members only. But I arguably have Buddhist leanings, so let me air an idea that came to me tonight. The cycle of reincarnation is what the Buddha has escaped and what the rest of us greedy, desirous, selfish and temptation appeasing mortals are destined to repeat until we don’t. But something happened to me tonight that made me see the beauty of rebirth in a new way. The cycle of energy is a glorious miracle.

Today was important for one reason – attempt #2 to find the salsa class. Having googled mapped (that worked well for me last time) the damn gym, I felt about as confident as a football coach at his first game that I’d find the place. I even thought I had outsmarted myself. I looked at street view of google maps. Take that tiny streets without street names. I memorized the buildings and the trees, remembering fountains and store fronts so when I came to the intersection I’d instinctively know where to turn. If only we actually lived in a google map world….

I had forgotten the changes over time, the different season and the fact that I was walking at night. In the dark. It doesn’t help to remember store fronts if they’ve all pulled down the garage like door over their names. And it doesn’t help to remember plants when its winter here and even the palm trees are losing leaves. I didn’t kick myself in the butt yet; I was determined to find it. So after wandering a bit off track, I was feeling the rising sensation of desperation. Like when you’re staring at the clock as time ticks by and still you can’t think of what the word rainbow in Spanish means for the vocab test. In a final effort I began to profile people on the streets, trying to identify the best informant possible. I had few minutes to waste and little patience for my inability to understand the accent here. I had to pick right the first time or I’d be done for. As I saunter with feigned confidence and purpose I spot an older couple walking a tiny pooch. I begin to circle my prey. They aren’t wearing anything fashionable, the woman isn’t in heels. Good, that means they’ll be nice, or at least shouldn’t have a stick up their ass. Their dog is tiny, which says the couple might be modest, and better yet, the dog doesn’t have barrettes in its hair or bows on its head as most dogs do here. They’re practical. And not animal abusers. And the clincher, they were chatting casually with each other. Holy shit they have a functional marriage, they’re amicable, they’re quiet and they’re Spanish. Done. I want them. Scooting slyly up to the man’s side, I look at the woman to ask my question, because everyone knows the wife has all the answers, but only after flashing my sweetest smile I can muster. Greeting them like a girl with Girl Scout cookies I ask politely if they could direct me to the Polideportivo please. they ask which one and my heart drops, you’ve got to be kidding me, I thought I had figured this whole Polideportivo shit out, now they’re telling me I have to pick again?? After I identify it as La Trinidad they nod and begin to tell me how to go, apparently it’s complicated (great..) and when the light turns green for us to cross the street they wave their hands, erasing all their previous statements and tell me that they are actually going that way and they’ll take me. As we carry on the woman begins to tell me to not come home on the street we’re walking because it’ll be too dark and too dangerous for a little girl like me all alone. She describes another wider street with more lights that I simply must take. I tell her thank you so much because as I’m not from Malaga I don’t know what’s safe and what’s dangerous. They both begin to laugh heartily and say “Oh dear girl, we know, we know, that’s why we’re telling you all this.” I can’t help but laugh as well. And then the man hands me the most wonderful compliment I’ve ever been given. He tells me I’m starting to sound like a Malaguenen. I almost shriek with joy but instead vehemently deny it telling him that it couldn’t be possible, because I barely understand the accent of Andalucía. He is so delighted to be a mystery to me. And then he says, ok, I’m going to say a sentence that you’ll never understand, but it’s a real sentence, ok? I laugh and say that he couldn’t surprise me, but I’m ready. And before I know it he’s pelting me with a staccato rush of sound, damming the whole performance with a smile and a question, “what did I say?” I am already laughing saying that I have absolutely no idea. I wasn’t even sure he said words. It sounded like a rap song that had a bad problem skipping. He said the sentence to me slowly in Spanish, something about Jose tomando sol with something something at the somewhere in something. I dropped my jaw in awe and told him that I hope to be so fluent that I could actually understand what he just said. At this point the laughter of his wife jumped on board and she said I’d have to live here a long long time. A lifetime.

We’re rounding the corner and the gym lays ahead alit in full splendor. Piece of shit was hiding down some back sketchy allies though; I never would have found it without their help. Grr… the wife asks if I’m in a hurry because she wants to show me the safe way to go home and get back on the ‘wide well lit street.’ I obviously acquiesced and we as they say here ‘damos una vuelta’ we made a loop. I’m sure by this point their little dog was thinking, my god mom and dad, I’ve gone to the bathroom, what more do you want? My poor little legs can’t handle this! As we make it back around to the entrance the wife encourages me to take the safe way because she says her daughter used to come to the gym when she was a teenager and every time she imagined her daughter walking the dark scary streets, she just “ooooooooooooo” and she waves her hands as if she were stuck in a nightmare, showing me how terrible it was to think of baby in danger. I say thank you a thousand times over for helping me stay safe, and that I haven’t met a friendlier couple during my whole time in Spain, I told them they were my guardian angels. I didn’t mean to but I made the wife start to cry. She was all choked up saying how it was nothing nothing nothing, little one, just stay safe and keep to the streets with lights and people and that I was beautiful and should keep practicing because I’d get it so soon. She held onto me as we did besos and her husband less emotional wished me the best and teased me with a farewell tongue-twister to contemplate. I waved at them as they walked away and then I stared at the sky, sending out my sincerest thanks to the world for sending me two wonderful angels. As they looked back at me I saw my grandma give me a grin, like she always did as we left after Sunday dinner and I saw my grandpa walking by her side with such tenderness that only comes after a lifetime of loyalty. And I heard my mom in her words to be safe little one and I felt my dad’s presence in the teasing tongue twister. And people continued to flash across their faces and speak through their words and walk by my side. And it’s for this reason that I think reincarnation is such a subtle miracle in our daily lives. Each of you was reborn through their presence, visiting me with your special ways and endearing energy. It was a wholesome experience of being loved because I could feel the different types of love intertwining and articulating their distinct relationship with me.

Maybe personally we are all trying to escape reincarnation, but for those in our lives that we love, reincarnation is a way to connect and reconnect and ignite the magic of memory. And gives nostalgia that sweetness that lingers like the moon hiding in the sky on a sunny day.

- - - - - - - - ---

Small victory, I’ve made it to the 1 month water stop. Thank you all for helping me to carry on :)
Peace and so much love, kt

With the reflection of my smile in the window a circle of light and joy

Day 30

In the Costa del Sol storms are a bit like a bad hair cut. You’re devastated when you first look, you don’t want to go outside, but you know in time it’ll get better. Soon enough it’ll be sunny and you’ll have forgotten about the rainy day blues.

In the past a rainy day has been just like any other day, but only less enjoyable to a small degree. But as a pedestrian, who depends upon the streets, rainy days change the entire nature of your day. Waiting at the bus stop isn’t quite such a non-chalant deal. I dare you to break out that iPod. Remember how well it did when you dropped it in the toilet? Yeah, maybe it’ll play nicer with huge rain drops. Or simply walking by the road is a hazardous game of chicken with the cars. Will they spray you with a puddle? And navigating those fools crazy enough to ride their bike in the rain is a whole other ordeal. They fail to realize that their brakes DON’T work in the rain. So no, you can’t just pull in behind a crowd at a stop light and expect to not wipe us all out. Rainy days also call to mind proper etiquette lessons that are never explicitly taught. Do you stop the lady from sitting on the bench that’s actually wet and she just didn’t notice? Do you give up your spot under the alcove for someone else? Do you even care how many people you whack with your umbrella as you haul ass home? Do you cuss out the cars as they spray water up at you, probably on purpose? And do you bring all the homeless of Malaga home? And that poor black kitten you always see in the garden, are you really going to leave her meowing in this weather??? But all of this is subordinate to the real question: which shoes do I wear??


Hahah, just kidding. If you know me you know I have 3 pairs of shoes- sneakers, boots, and flip flops. (and my salsa shoes, come on, that’s a given though).

Leaving the dark and dirty streets of Malaga for the countryside of Álora I came to appreciate rainy days in a whole new way. The mountains were dusted with clouds passing through like old ladies back floating in the kiddie pool. Daring streaks of light darted through the slow train of clouds, illuminating patches of farms, and herds of sheep or tagged the occasional passing truck. The valleys closed themselves off, withdrawing into their own worlds, shrugging their mountain shoulders in, rocking with moody winds and dark clouds. Standing at the back of my school the whole Guadalhorce Valley lay before me, unknowingly beautiful in its sinister disposition. It was as if I was under the sea and a thunderstorm was brewing above the waves, but nothing was clear, only murky gloom discernible. Rain poured from disparate clouds, blurring the ridges of mountains, moving the grey front closer and closer.

But a rainy day is not a day lost. Sometimes something better than sunshine comes from it. Sometimes, there are rainbows. And today, was magical.

I saw an entire rainbow. Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet in a grand crescendo and decrescendo from left to right. A perfect inversion of my smile, the rainbow towered over the valley. And as the train carried me away, the window of the car framed for a perfect moment the total beauty of the miracle. Lasting only the length of a deep inhalation, the rainbow reigned, arched in unfailing determination, the dominion of color a herald of the coming vivacity.

Like a playful puppy the rainbow followed me back to Málaga, refracting a double rainbow over the dry river, disappearing into the buildings of the center of town.

For a Libra, the rainbow sightings held special meaning; the balance of the sides radiated a peaceful calm. Equilibrium. Only the exact thing I chase. Perhaps there’s luck in a triple rainbow sighting, or perhaps its nature smiling at me to say that grace and balance are the restful respite after tumultuous times. For now though I’ll enjoy the electric highs and the thunderous lows of my time here, awaiting the day when I feel the totality of my prismatic splendor.


And I would like to wish Mr. and Mrs. Mayo a very very happy 1 month anniversary!! Were you the rainbows watching over me?

My love and strength to you all!
I hope that you all feel free enough to run through the rain, hoping to get as wet as you can possibly get, simply because the rain is falling, as my students did after school today. Find the freedom of innocence and revel in it while it lasts.

The Other One. Of Course.

Day 29

An unspoken rule for all travels abroad: There are always 2 of whatever you are looking for. And you always chose the wrong one. There are always 2 train stations and you go the east station while your train pulls away from the west station. There are always 2 cafes where you’re supposed to meet your friends and you go to the one you know while they think malicious thoughts of you at the one they know. There are always 2 entrances and there are always 2 exits. There are always 2 levels and there are always 2 sides of the street. There are always 2 rooms in a restaurant and there are always 2 benches on opposite sides of the park. And in my case, there’s 2 polideportivos (gyms). And for the first time in my life I arrive early… to the wrong one.

All day I had been like a child waiting for Friday when they serve pizza at lunch. I had finally found a place to dance salsa and the nice Spanish girl was great enough to tell me the time and the name of the place but failed to actually get me directions to get there. Having biked across the country using Google maps I figured I couldn’t go too wrong using it again to search down this mysterious ‘polideportivo’ she mentioned, where the group would meet. After 5 intense minutes of squinting at the screen and dragging it here and there with the small white hand I decided that I had found it and I memorized the route there like it was my social security code.

And then I head out, leaving unnecessarily early in case I see a store I want to stop in, or the more likely case, I get lost and have to ask for directions. I’m making good time, going just a little slower than Google maps had predicted, not that I’m sure their invisible walker measuring man waits for stop lights or has to dodge late night dog walkers. I triumphantly turn the corner and there it lay! The erroneous Polideportivo. I let the people I had just passed in my eager jaunt pass me so I can see how you enter this megalith building. Not wanting to waste time exploring to find the room, I bust down the office door like a mom with a lost child and politely ask where the salsa class meets. The man attending and his gaggle of gawdy make up faced custodians sitting around like roosting hens, all cackle at my question. I repeat my question, thinking that I perhaps misstated my question using the wrong verb tense. But the office manager just shook his head and said “salsa??? Dance??” and mimicked a salsa move that Shakira could do before she was even born it was so bad. Not wanting to confirm his mockery of my passion, but desperate to get the information I wanted I said yes. And he said, ‘definitely not here.’ Taking him to be an ill-informed liar I wandered the grounds, my ears tuned for the sound of salsa music. I couldn’t hear a damn beat anywhere. Just futbol games for miles. Despondent, I shuffled up the stairs to walk the long way home. The office manager stopped me on the way out and asked if I had found the group. I admitted no and he said that they were probably at the other polideportivo, about half the distance from my piso. So kind of him to mention that right when I walked in. but at least I understood his directions to the other polideportivo. So all was not lost!

I should have expected misgivings tonight because all day the clouds wore mischievous dark grins, laden with thunder and rain, not breaking for anyone though. I smiled back, loving the playful mood of the sky and the wind and the freakish light that always seems to be switched on before a storm. All the way home on the train the trees and bushes raged with trembling arms raised high, urging me home home home!! But I defied their warnings, instead venturing out to dance. And so it goes, headstrong I don’t get to dance at all. And the rain clouds still haven’t burst.

The Galaxy in a Maritime Arabesque

Day 28

Even snowflakes falling on a windless night don’t drift as slowly as the seagulls float on the wind over the Mediterranean. Spiraling up in a prismatic column of white heads and gray wings, tiny specks of birds flash in and out of the amber rays of sunlight sliding slowly over the ocean, down into the horizon behind the coastline. It’s as if the Milky Way has wafted down to the coast of Spain and the roaring hush of the wind has trapped me in a pocket of time, eyes locked in on the wonder of the ethereal birds, as if I were watching the movement of stars light years away. Stray birds are pulled into the cosmic spiral, an invisible hand spinning the vortex in place. Like the crashing mist of a waterfall caught in a moment for eternity in full force against the rocks, droplets rising in reactionary rebound and reverberation, the birds are so held, as my breath is held in my chest, the wind proctoring silent reverie, holding the coming rushing sound of the world. It’s the moment of prayer before the cracking stampede of amen. There’s a holiness holding the moment in place. Smoothing out the water in wide swatches of dark blue rubs, the wind rolls over the surface from which the birds rise, pushing excess swells to the shore like a baker rolling out dough. Boats sit out far enough from me to look like children’s toys forgotten in an evening bath, but close enough to the galaxy of gulls to hear their echoing cries. The boats sit in dropped anchor awe. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

And then, when winds taper, the spiral, like a wilting flower closes in upon itself and the cloud of birds settles like a fog on the gentle swells. Again!, again!, I whisper to the seagulls. Rise again! reincarnate the still beauty of your lightness. But somewhere a bullhorn sounds signaling the departing of a cruise ship, renting the sacred vacuum of the wind and the birds in flight. Heavy shadows of dusk fall like the closing of a curtain and its cold. I rise to leave, my bench still stares out to the fallen fowls, scattered like ever glowing fallen stars or the refracting rays of sunlight, caught in full sheen on the rise of an undulating wave.

The blessing of a Sunday afternoon in which one has the time to breathe deeply and feel the airy silence of flight.

No longer is it Mal-ugghhhh-ga. but rather, Torr-euugh-Molinos. Nothing like knowing the grass isn't greener on the other side to make you feel better

Day 27

I suppose my curmudgeon whispers of how La Malageta isn’t really a beach made their way down to the waves who slipped the gossips to the shores as they came in for high tide because this morning as I walked the water line the sand saw it fit to make me trip as a spot jokingly gave way under my left foot. It wasn’t too early in the morning, so my reaction time was quick and I recovered from my stumble in a crawl position, as if I’d suddenly become very interested in some grain of sand. Muttering to myself and initiating a chuckle to laugh it off I saw deep spirals emerging as the wave faded back to the sea. I reached out and picked up a perfect conch shell. Tan like bread just out of the oven, spiraling like a croissant hiding secrets in its folds. Even better, it was empty. Feeling more like a convenient buyer happening upon an empty lot, than the government claiming eminent domain, I tucked the shell into the curve of my eager hand and didn’t even bother to wipe the sand off my knees, who knew when I’d have to be back down peering into the water again.

I had decided for some time that I needed a change of scenery. And I don’t mean in Malaga. A quick pop over to Charlottesville or NOVA just didn’t seem sensible for a day, the lines for security nowadays really are discouraging. So I settled for Torremolinos, only 30 minutes by train, conveniently right next to the huge shopping mall of Malaga, Plaza Mayor. I figured all the sickly people of Europe go “away to the countryside to heal what ails them” so I might as well head to another part of the coast to get over the Malaga doldrums I’ve been stuck in. my prognosis : it worked. There’s nothing like going to a place that’s worse than where you live to make you appreciate a new the place you’re from. At every turn I was more disappointed with Torremolinos and more onboard with living in Malaga. I’d been in the habit of comparing Malaga to Valencia, the superior city, which probably wasn’t fair to Malaga, making it look like the ugly little stepbrother of the coast. But now I can say at least I’m not in Torremolinos! It really is a good feeling to know that it could be worse.

But I didn’t realize all of this right away. This thought slowly settled in as I rode the train home to Malaga.

To go back a few steps, to the train ride over, where I started to have a feeling that the trip was a good idea. Sitting by the window I was doing my normal intense zone out day dream window stare, coming precariously close to slamming my nose into the window when the train slowed or turned. As we pulled into the Aeropuerto stop a man on the platform stuck his tongue out at him, I was shocked, no one dares show emotions in public expect to shout something in disgust, and this was a very friendly joking display. When the woman behind me lit up and started waving at the tongue flailing man I realized he was making faces at her, not me. the woman gave her daughter a nudge off the seat and told her to go greet her dad. The train stopped and the man hopped into the train grabbing his daughter in his arms, stealing kisses as she giggled and squirmed. Walking past me to the seat at my back his wife moved over and he leaned down to kiss her, freezing her mid motion, the urgency of greeting her too pressing to wait. I smiled, I couldn’t help it. I had that warm feeling inside, the one I get when everything feels just right. It made me remember the times we’d gone to pick up my own dad from the airport, circling the pick up area, waiting for his arm to wave us down and the voice of the telephone calls would be placed back into the body that gave such good hugs. The gentle love of that dad reminded me of when I was a child, asking for piggy back rides or back scratches, Dad always smiled and said, ok, 1 more time. And it’s odd, I thought I would feel sad seeing this other family, but I didn’t. I only felt that happiest I’d felt the whole time I’d been here. Maybe it was knowing that the love I’d known growing up was so special as to be the only case, but rather one more example of a larger trend. Even though I wasn’t part of their little family, I felt like Scrooge, looking in secretly, knowing what it’s all about.

Torremolinos turned out to be a disappointing tourist haven. My ears were pelted with British accented English and grunts of German. Barely any Spanish challenged the English on the street even though all the signs and all the restaurants proclaimed themselves in Spanish. It was as if Torremolinos had succeeded to the invasion of the British, relinquishing its Spanish identity, selling its self out to the tourist industry. Like the queues of people waiting to get into Wal Mart on black Friday, queues of benabs and beach chairs lined the beach, all demanding their fair share of Mediterranean sun before it became too cold to sun bathe. Those not lounging on the beach were roosting in beach side cafes and restaurants that catered to the international crowd, calling themselves names such as “The Cozy Nook” and “Tiki Lounge.” Waiting outside the cafes on the walls lining the beach were handfuls of foreigners of a different nature. Men from Africa stood in front of their makeshift sunglasses and purses display, bantering in their native tongue with other vendors a high-5 away. Their presence was glaringly loud. The white Brits basically blended in with the pale beach and the blinding sunshine, but these market hawks detested your gaze, being such a rich color, as if they had spent centuries outside the sun had granted them a more beautiful color, warmer than the espresso sold at the cafes and richer than the chestnuts roasting at beach side stands. Their color alone called them out, otherwise they were silent. (You must remember that there is almost NO cultural diversity in Spain, that is to say, racially. It’s an annoying bulk of whiteness. And the blob of Caucasian tends to push any other color to the edges, like crust to be cut off.)

And the streets were so quiet. Everything seemed to whisper, hush hush, even the waves as they rushed in and out did so in a quiet way, wooooshhhh, wooooooshh, soothing sounds away in their rhythmic melody. Fleeing the glaring sun and deafening silence of the cheap beaches I fled to El Parque de la Bateria (Battery Park) that the travel website was a “don’t miss!” spot of Torremolinos. After tramping up a hill that made me question the original desire to see the park I made it. The park that dominated the tourist map in actually was not really to scale, the park a few foot ball fields wide tumbled quickly down to an edge overlooking the beach. But what I noticed first was not how small it was, nor how eerily clean and crisp it was, but rather, that it was a children’s park. I was the only one without a stroller and child tottering 2 feet ahead of me. Funny that the website had left this cute little fact out. So as I strolled the park I felt like a creeper, trying to not look at any child, or walk on the same path as another family. I snapped quick pictures and tried by failed to sit on a bench and ‘soak it all in.’ too many babies crying and too many stressed parents chastising their wiley children. Funny, I don’t remember a ‘you must be this tall to enter the park sign’ when I came in. I thought it better to head back to the train station and just read my book still the train came back in 30 minutes to take me back to Malaga. And for once, I was eager to get to Malaga. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s still no love in my heart for Malaga, because as I get off the train some old lady cuts me off to get through the ticket line and a car honks at me for walking when I have a green man flashing and the people still walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk and smirk at me for not moving. But, I’ve finally gotten the change of perspective I’ve needed. And even though I still don’t understand the accent either, I was reminded by my dear friend Selin, at least they just drop letters; they don’t speak a whole new language such as Mallorquin. Hahaha! (Don’t let Mallorca make you sweat- you survived Valenciano!)

So Malaga, this isn’t me saying I like you, that’s asking too much, but at least you’re not Torremolinos.

:)

130 years ago Picasso would have been my Neighbor. Timing is Everything.

Day 26

Again with these ideas of getting up early and being productive. I wisely snoozed my cell phone to the point of exhaustion and it gave up ringing to rouse me and let me oversleep till 10am. Only when a louder buzz sounded twice did I hop out of bed. It was the doorbell. To the door. This might sound obvious, but in Spain there is a subtle difference between ringing the door and ringing up to the piso. If you ring up, you are out on the street requesting entrance into the building, which you then enter and hop in the elevator up to your friend’s floor. But this morning the buzzer was for our door. Who ever it was had already gotten in and was tapping their foot impatiently just one wall over. I put on a sweatshirt and hopelessly calmed down my bed head hair that refused to get up and instead held the position of the pillow on my head, like a tidal wave of slumber had hit me in the head. Pulling the door open I’m greeted by my landlord, jumpstarting my Spanish brain I stammer a good morning and ask what I can do for her. Reading the tell tale signs of blanket face and bed head hair she asks if she woke me up and I brush her question off with no no, I was just doing some..Uh...work. Clearly not actually worried she cuts my explanation short and begins to tell me that the locksmith man is coming to fix our door because currently we can’t lock our door. And if you do lock our door from the outside, you leave the person inside stranded because there is no way to unlock it from inside (a fun game Chris and I played one morning, holding me hostage in our piso). Before I can say great a sluggard of a man starts hauling his tools up the 3 flights of stairs, just alit with passion for his work. He leans against the wall to catch his breath, hitting our buzzer and a horrendous “riiiiiiiiiiinnnngggg” sounds out. Even the locksmiths of Spain need to make an entrance. He says he’ll need at least 1.5 hours to do it because he’s alone. My landlord says fine fine, while I can hardly believe it. He needs how much time? What? In the USA if a locksmith took half that time the homeowner would kick him out and say they’ll put up a board to keep the door shut instead. But no, in Spain, time is much slower. So to make sure he doesn’t get too stressed and rush, our locksmith lights up and begins to finagle with our door, actually taking it off its hinge to fix the “problem.” So ironic that the only house rule we have is NO SMOKING. But he’s in the hall so we can’t really ask him to stop and plus he has our keys. Before the cathedral can sound the noon bells 3 minutes early he’s put out his 3rd cigarette and our landlord is back to pay him 400 euro and we get to play open/shut/ unlock/lock just to make sure he didn’t play a joke on us. And it works like a complicated charm.

Free to go on my way, knowing my piso is safely locked up. Not that I would really cry if all my stuff was stolen, I only have lame American clothes and lots of English books and odd dried flowers here and there and a broken camera and ipod that won’t upload shit. I’m probably a hot target. I high tail it to the bank because out of all the businesses of Spain that have the most slacker work day the bank takes the prize, they work a measly 9am-2pm. And you better believe they keep their hours, no going over, no opening early. I don’t flub too much Spanish and only use my dictionary once when the bank man starts to use odd bank language that I don’t even understand in English. When he starts saying lots of things I look at him and say “I want a debit card, an account that can receive a direct deposit once a month and I want to check my account online.” Ya está. He got it. Next week I can expect some sweet Spanish plastic, my first European debit card. I would say, woooo, time to go break the bank, but see, it’s MY bank now, and my measly 700 euro a month, so I’ll probably frame the card and take it out once a month to withdraw my rent.

Riding a very rare high, I head to the market before it closes at 3pm. Maybe because they are surrounded by fresh produce all day and have loads of cash in their pockets from daily sales the market vendors are nicer, I don’t know, but for some reason everyone in the market is just so darn friendly. Daydreaming about Thai food I accidentally buy a kilo of eggplant because it was 50cents/kilo and that looked really cheap. But when the bag started getting really big I realized how much a kilo really was. Hope I’m hungry for eggplant tomorrow and Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. Obviously I swing around to the disgusting pickled things stand and stare at bobbing olives. The smell though is powerfully pungent today, so I shuffle away quickly.

Feeling the urge to look at the things the tourist info center tells me I should look at I go to the two Picasso museums right by my piso. Random awesome fact: Picasso was born 1 block away from where I live. I investigated the tiny museum of his house, gawking at pictures of him as a child, looking more awkward than Alfalfa of the Little Rascals. Randomly attached was a collection by the Argentinean artist, Berni. His exhibition was astounding. Google his stuff if you can. Taking the disparate pieces of trash, of life, of clothes from closets, of tops of paint cans, and doilies from old ladies tables he made amalgamations of mediums, chronicling the adventures of Juan, as he once said, “was the combination of all children.” Inventive is just a word, too flat for how he escapes the canvas and makes you wonder just how much fun he must have had creating his works. I then wandered over to the Exposition of Latin American Art. Like the other 2 Picasso museums, this was a bite sized exposition, perfect for Katie, the neurotic museum gazer. Upon entering the Prado and Reina Sofia in Madrid I was almost in tears at how much I had to see, at a loss for how I would read every title, stare at every painting and get to every floor. But in Malaga, they make the museums do-able and enjoyable. They stick to 2 floors max. Floor one is big and spacious, moving you through eagerly and floor 2 is less spacious, making you wind up with determination. You feel a sense of accomplishment having seriously considered the 25 pieces of art on exhibit. Yes you may have only been there for 30 minutes, but hey, that means for at least 1 minute you looked at every painting, excluding travel time between pieces. Most artists don’t even expect that from an audience, right?

Best part of today, it’s November 5, 2010 and I am wearing shorts. And a tank top. Obviously I’m wearing a jacket, but no matter how lonely today was wandering through the fantasies of other minds, I could take comfort in my own reality of warmth.

But now that it’s getting late it’s bitterly cold. And with a new door that locks I wonder why go outside? As I told Mom before, the days when I don’t teach are so much harder than the days that I do. Too much quiet time elicits troublesome voices of discontent, whispering questions, begging for answers that come from other lips than my own.

Another day spent wandering Malaga, but more time spent wandering through my mind, thinking of other places, other people, and other times. If only Malaga would take a hold of me and give me some sort of purpose, give me a bit of love, then I wouldn’t feel like a child holding onto a rowdy kite, not wanting it to fly away, but wondering why I’m stuck on the ground, not in the sky as well. Come on Malaga, I’m trying to catch your drift.